Bloody Charr
by NefertariHime
Summary: G1! Woo! *Does a jig* Ahh... :) Oh, yeah. It's a crime-horror thing, sorta, which I actually started _months_ ago, and as the title suggests, it's kinda gross. Only the first chapter up, so far, out of the three planned. Read! Review!


_Okay, let's get one thing straight from the start: established canon characters die. And they don't come back to life. Ever. Get it? The characters you've watched and loved, die!   
On the bright side, they're not killed by any random self-insertion character. :)_

Disclaimer thing: It's not mine, it's Hasbro's, so there. 

_No, I'm serious, they die._

Bloody Charr

Chapter 1: don't open your eyes tonight 

_Sleepwalker, don't be shy   
Now don't open your eyes tonight   
You'll be the one that defends my life   
While I'm dead asleep dreaming_   
--The Wallflowers, "Sleepwalker" 

Charr is a desolate place any time of the day, but, Brawl decided, feeling unusually philosophic, during the rest-period it is even more depressing. After a few more clicks of this rare condition, he snorted contemptuously. _Primus, I'm turning into Dead End!_ He continued his lonely watch of the perimeter, staring blandly at the tall dirt mounds and sand-rock cliffs, which could all crumble with but a single shot - the fun of that activity, however, had ceased vorns ago. 

_What are we doing here, anyway?_ Brawl mused. Couldn't they just take off or something? Probably not. He pulled a foot back to kick at a rock, but froze as the sound preceded the action. It was as if the echo had decided to change it's habits and come _before_ the actual event. Brawl spun, optics searching frantically through the darkness, trying to spot a matching pair of scarlet lights; or, perhaps, a pair of blue optics, instead. Brawl wouldn't object - then there'd at least be happening something. But there was nothing. 

Brawl hissed softly, nervously, but turned back to his guard. "Boring," he murmured out loud, trying to ease his fear, but unwilling to admit that, even to himself. He carefully walked along, one optic constantly on the shadows within the base. "I'm being silly," he berated himself, hefting the rifle in his hand, trying to banish the anxiety with bravado. It didn't work. Especially not when exactly three firm footsteps, not Brawl's own, echoed out into the desolate night. Brawl whirled around once more, pointing the rifle into the darkness. "W-who's there?" he demanded. 

A low hiss and a sadistic, raspy chuckle answered. Suddenly, two slanted, crimson optics shone out to him. 

Brawl gasped and backed away. "I said, who's there? Who are you?" 

They came closer, and now the wisp of feet stalking quietly over metal-floor could also be heard. Again, it hissed. 

"Who's there?! Identify yourself!" Brawl nearly screamed. 

Then it stepped out into the shallow light of the stars and distant galaxies. It stood tall, it smiled cruelly, it raised an apparently clawed hand... 

"You! What are you--" 

...and slashed open Brawls abdomen, mech-fluids and wires spilling out. And as Brawl, sparking and gasping his last, fell to the ground, it threw back its head and laughed into the desolate night of Charr. 

*

Cyclonus awoke to a pounding headache, creatively cursing himself. Then he remembered that he hadn't over-energised the day before. The only reason he'd assumed it to be a hangover was that the last, and only, time he'd experienced an actual _pounding_ headache was the day Scourge, along with a couple of sweeps, had abducted him and force-fed him spiked energon. He'd passionately sworn to kill Scourge, but was appeased by the fact that the sweep leader had been even worse off than him. Instead, Cyclonus had uncharacteristically spent the rest of the day gloating. This headache however... 

As the world sped up in real-time, along with his slow waking up, he realised that, yes, there was a nasty headache, but the pounding was from an external force. In fact, the pounding was on the door. And it was too enthusiastic - he checked his chronometer - this early in the local cycle. 

"Who is it, and what do you want?" he finally bellowed, rubbing his temples, optics severely, and quite deliberately, off-line. 

"Who d'ya think?" Scourge answered, voice muffled by the door. "Who else would be brave enough to endure your cheerful morning-mood?" 

Cyclonus, who'd gotten up and wobbled to the door during Scourge's weak attempt at humour, hit the button by the side of the door and glared rather vehemently at his friend as it slid into the wall. 

"Woah! Hit by Autobot City, Cyc?" Scourge exclaimed, looking the jet up and down. 

Cyclonus' already taut mouth pulled into a frown, and he straightened, trying to look respectable. "I-I think I might've been working a bit too late last night." 

"Yeah, so I saw. When are you gonna learn that the only way of avoiding those headaches is to get a decent amount of sleep?" Before Cyclonus had time to ask why on Cybertron Scourge had checked the time he went off-line, the sweep continued. "Or maybe it's too bad you didn't stay up a few hours longer. You could've seen something." 

"Something? What something?" 

Scourge jerked his head down the corridor, then turned and paced down the selected path himself. Cyclonus shook his head and followed. Jogging for a few moments, he easily reached the hovercraft, and threw him a questioning glance. 

"Brawl," Scourge answered to the unasked question. "Dead End was scanning in to take over the guard, but Brawl hadn't checked off. When he didn't answer his comm, we thought he'd gone AWOL." Scourge shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time, after all. I figured he'd spotted something, so I send Dead End down anyway, telling him to keep his eyes out for Brawl. The second he gets down there, he radios back and, well..." 

As Scourge was talking, they'd reached the main loading room, and Scourge let the door slide open. The two Unicronians stepped through, and Cyclonus frowned at the gathering of Decepticons, chatting excitedly while standing on toes to catch a glimpse of something. 

Scourge walked straight into the fray, much to Cyclonus' combined amusement and confusion, and started pushing the Predacons out of the way. "What is this, a circus? Move!" Razorclaw muttered something under his breath, but he, and his gestalt-mates, moved out of the way, none the less. Scourge gestured for his friend. "C'mon, Cyc." 

Cyclonus complied, elbowing his way past the still dense gathering. Reaching the middle, he followed Scourge's gaze to the floor. Scrapper and Hook were both squatting there, fiddling with small, complicated-looking devices. Next to them, Soundwave was kneeling, posture stiff, apparently running a scan. And in between them - _Sweet Primus..._

In between them lay what could vaguely be determined as Brawl. The chassis was on its back, armour ripped brutally away, revealing the delicate circuitry underneath. Not that it was so delicate after having been ripped out and spred around randomly. The pool of mech-fluids had been wiped away, leaving only a little around the body itself. With a queasy feeling, Cyclonus realised that the majority of the mess must have been cleaned up while he was still off-line; and he really didn't want to think of how it looked before. The queasy feeling hit full-blown nausea as Scrapper took hold of Brawl's head, which till then had been turned away, and lifted it to get a better look at it. 

Cyclonus fought desperately not to back away, and succeeded, in contrast to Scourge who obviously hadn't seen Brawl's face either, until now; he quickly took a couple of steps back. 

The helmet was bashed horribly, dents randomly strewn across the grey surface. The protective visor was gone, revealing two, now very dark, optics, each methodically crossed over with an 'X'. The battle-mask, too, had been brutally ripped off, and the criss-crossed metal strips in front of the audio-emitter had been twisted away, wires and chips from within dangling freely like some grotesquely slashed up tongue. 

Scrapper made a disgusted sound, and Hook frowned, directing a thin beam of light at the battered surface. 

Cyclonus, deciding to snap up and act like was expected, haunched down next to them, absently listening in on the usual techno-drivel that no one could understand but themselves. "What happened?" 

Scrapper looked up, mildly annoyed. Hook just ignored him. "He was attacked. Isn't it obvious?" 

The jet just looked at him, long and coolly. 

With a condescending sigh, and a glance skywards, Scrapper deigned to answer. "Around the middle of his shift, someone - or something - attacked him, rather brutally. It was clawed, from what I gather." 

"Clawed?" Cyclonus' all ready tight brow furrowed further. He could see nothing but a mish-mash of metal and wires. 

Scrapper carefully pointed to the edge of one of the larger wounds. "Look. Here's four indentations. Marks after claws, if you look carefully." 

Cyclonus leant in over the body, ignoring the stench of free-flowing mech-fluids. And indeed, four scratches, like those left by claws, were visible. "I see them." 

The Constructicon looked as if he didn't particularly care, but kept his mouth shut, none the less. With a terse nod, he turned back to work. 

Scourge had finally built up his resolve, and knelt beside Cyclonus. "Well?" 

"Some clawed critter." 

"Quintesson 'critter'?" 

Cyclonus frowned. "Maybe. But I don't think so. I'm pretty sure it was someone from base." 

Scourge looked askance at him. "Why so?" 

The jet pointed down. "Admittedly, I can't see much of the blood, seeing as it's cleaned of--" 

"I have ready scans," Soundwave interjected. 

Cyclonus nodded at the communicator. "--but from what I see, he hasn't been moved or flipped over. So he has, in all likelihood, been attacked from the front; from inside the base." Scourge's mouth formed a silent 'oh', and they both looked to Soundwave for confirmation. 

"Affirmative," he intoned. 

Scourge mulled over the fact before hesitantly asking, "Think a sweep did it?" 

"Perhaps--" Cyclonus began before getting interrupted, once more, by Soundwave. 

"Negative. Scans indicate the weapon to have light structural compliance." 

"Strap-on claws, then?" Scourge asked, perking ever so slightly up. 

"Affirmative." 

"Uh-huh," Cyclonus murmured sceptically. "Where'd they go, then. The murderer take them with him?" 

"Nah," Scourge answered idly, rising. "There's a washed-off trail of fluid, goin' this way." He pointed. Pushing through the crowd again, he reached on of the corners of the large room, and hopped on top of the crates stacked there. Reaching up, he triumphantly pulled out a fluid-soaked claw weapon, carefully dangling it from one of his own claws. "Tadaa!" 

"Let me see that!" Hook snapped, elbowing his way out of the curious crowd to grap the weapon. In a flash Scrapper was next to him. "We have to scan this completely," the surgeon told him. 

Scrapper nodded. "Right. I'll tell Scavenger and Longhaul to pick up Brawl." He raised his voice. "All right, everybody _out_! C'mon, move it!" Grumbling amongst themselves, the Decepticons reluctantly complied. Cyclonus, Scourge and Soundwave were pushed out last by Hook, and Scrapper locked off the room with a high-priority code, only to be broken by the code word or Lord Galvatron himself. 

Speaking of which... "Has anyone informed Lord Galvatron?" Cyclonus asked. 

Scourge winced. "No... He's still sleeping, and no one really wanted to risk it, but..." He trailed off, looking uncomfortably towards the Commander's quarters. 

Cyclonus sighed resignedly. "Don't worry, Scourge. I'll do it." He glumly walked off. _Primus, what a way to start the day..._

*

Scrapper looked up from the grotesque sight of Brawl's insides and looked to his fellow Constructicon. "Find it, yet?" 

"Would you stop nagging?" Hook snapped, not even bothering to look up. He'd removed Brawl's helmet and the top plate of his head. The wounds indicated that there was a good chance of Brawl having seen his murderer. If he could just get the neural chip... 

"I'm not nagging," Scrapper told him curtly. "Maybe if you'd move faster than a smelted Autobot--" 

"I've got it!" 

Scrapper perked up and leant forward. "Be careful!" 

Hook smirked, still mainly focused on his task. "Well, I'm sorry; but I _was_ told to step it up." 

"Just be careful." 

The surgeon carefully, oh, so carefully disentangled the small chip from the mess of wires around it. "Okay. Get me a container." 

In a zip Scavenger stood ready with a small metal box. "Got it!" 

Pulling the pincers out, Hook held the small bit of metal up against the light. Only to lower it and slump his shoulders a moment later. 

"What's wrong?" Scrapper asked nervously. 

Hook held the chip out to him, and Scrapper, knowing that the perfectionist would never let him hold it if it would be damaged by it, took it gently. A hole, about half the diameter of the chip itself, was pierced right through the middle. 

"Our murderer knows what he's doing," Hook concluded, leaning tiredly against the lab table. 

Scrapper narrowed his eyes behind his visor. "Claws didn't do this... Scavenger!" 

Said Constructicon started. "Y-yes, Scrapper?" 

"Here." He handed the chip to his gestalt-mate. "Find out which weapons could do this." 

"Sure, Scrapper!" And he took off, eager, as always, to please. 

The leader of Devastator scratched his helmet. "Well. We'll have to tell Cyclonus. Help Scavenger with those scans, would you, Hook?" He headed for the door. 

Hook's cultured voice stopped him. "Don't bother, Scrapper. He'll be here in a minute." 

"What? Why?" 

"He went to report to Galvatron." A sadistic smirk quirked at the surgeon's mouth. 

Scrapper, however, winced in sympathy. "Glad it wasn't me." 

They didn't have to wait long. Soon, the door slid open, and Cyclonus stumbled in, dents and scorch marks on his body. 

Scrapper offered a wry chuckle. "Sit, Cyclonus." He patted another repair table. 

Throwing a quick glance at the twisted mash of wires that used to be Brawl, he jumped up to sit on the designated table. 

Hook immediately started swarming over him, various tools bleeping and whirring as they scanned Cyclonus' body. 

"What have you found out?" Cyclonus asked Scrapper, nodding towards the chassis. 

Scrapper sighed tiredly. "Not much. Our murderer knows anatomy, though. He's managed to destroy the neural chip." 

Cyclonus furrowed his brows, looking even more tense than usual. "How? Can I see?" 

"When Scavenger's finished running scans on it." 

"Oh." Cyclonus hissed softly in pain, as Hook focused on a small, but probably painful tear in the jet's side. "What else?" 

Scrapper crossed his arms, looking, even without visible mouth or optics, quite dejected. "He's strong. He's brutal. But he also has enough presence of mind to clean up after himself. A lot of the mess was actually cleaned up before Dead End got down there. There was enough to determine direction of attack and all, but something important was erased, or he wouldn't have bothered." 

Cyclonus nodded, biting his lip. 

"I've got 'em, Scrapper!" Scavenger exulted, practically bouncing over. Then he noticed Cyclonus and came to a sudden halt. "Oh. Hello, Cyclonus, sir," he continued meekly. 

Cyclonus forced an earnest nod of greeting - not an easy thing when you're not only dealing with a mad killer, but also a somewhat sadistic surgeon attending to your wounds. All Cyclonus really wanted to do was to curl up and glare at the world in general. Not that he would have, under any circumstances, but still, it was a nice thought. 

"What have you found?" Scrapper quickly demanded, before the younger Constructicon - if that term could even be used between the gestalt members - overheated from his innate awkwardness. 

Scavenger immediately perked up. "I've got a list of weapons, Scrapper," he said eagerly, handing his leader a data pad. Then he held out the chip. "And here's the, um, neural chip." 

"Give it to Cyclonus," Scrapper said absently, paging through the list. "He wanted to see it." 

Cyclonus took it from the fidgety Constructicon, grunting out a thanks. Lifting it up to the light, he stared intensely at the wrecked piece of circuitry. "What did this?" 

Scrapper clicked the pad in his hand off. "According to this, any in a multitude of weapons. It would probably be a good idea for you to check out the armoury, sir. See if anything's missing." 

The jet nodded and handed the chip back to Scavenger. To Hook he said, "Have you finished with the wounds?" 

"Your nanites should take care of the rest, but I still need to remove the sco--" 

"Never mind. I'll take care of those myself." Cyclonus jumped down from the table, ignoring the surgeon's miffed expression. "If you find out anything else," he told Scrapper, "radio me. And, by the way, have you seen the Combaticons?" 

Underneath the battle visage, Scrapper frowned. None of the combiner teams held each other in high regard. "No, sir, but I can't imagine any of them feeling well." 

Cyclonus nodded curtly and briskly strode out the door, forcing himself to keep a pained limp at bay. 

There was silence in the medbay. Until Hook muttered, "Prick." 

*

Astrotrain grumbled and rubbed a dent on his arm. Galvatron had raged through the communications room a few minutes earlier, leaving a good deal of the inhabitants with sore spots. At the moment Drag Strip was helping a sweep getting a console back in its upright position, The door slid open, and the sweep snapped to a salute. Drag Strip was less enthusiastic, but he too straightened. 

Astrotrain spotted the reason, Cyclonus, and groaned inwardly. _Great... Mr. Personality's here._ None the less, the triple-changer stood, saluting, then pointing at another door. "Lord Galvatron went that way, sir." 

Cyclonus looked unblinkingly at the door for a moment. "Thank you, Astrotrain, but that's not why I'm here. I need to know which Combaticons are in the base. Call them up on the intercom, would you?" 

Astrotrain blinked. "Uh... sure thing, sir." He snatched up the IC microphone and called, "Combaticons. All Combaticons who hear this, report to the nearest IC console. Repeat, Combaticons, report to the nearest IC console." He shut it off, looking quizzically at Cyclonus. The warrior's face revealed nothing. 

After a moment the IC scratched, _"Swindle reporting."_ Next, so close to one another it overlapped, came, _"Blast Off reporting,"_ and, _"Onslaught reporting."_

Silence. Astrotrain waited nervously. Even Cyclonus tensed. Moments passed. 

_"Vortex reporting."_ All Decepticons in the room started. Astrotrain slid away from the IC mike, to the radio console. "Vortex, where are you?" 

_"Five miles south-east of the base. Onslaught said you wanted us to report."_

Cyclonus leant down, nudging Astrotrain away. He momentarily clinched his optics to ward off the oncoming headache. _Returning with a vengeance,_ he thought wryly. "Vortex, why have you left base without authorisation?" 

_"Since when do we need permission to take a flight?"_ Vortex asked, genuinely surprised. 

"Since one of your gestalt mates were killed," Cyclonus responded, sounding more snappish than he'd intended. Calming himself, he continued, "I need to talk to any witnesses, and you Combaticons are the closest I've got. Get back to base immediately!" 

_"No way! I'm perfectly happy out here. If you wanna talk to me, come outside."_ Astrotrain glanced askance at Cyclonus. The jet did not look happy. But before he could respond, Vortex' voice came through again, with a tangible smirk, _"Sir."_

Cyclonus snarled silently. "Astrotrain." Said triple-changer snapped to attention. "Tell the other Combaticons to assemble in half an hour, in the briefing room. I should've dragged Vortex back by then." And with that, Cyclonus stomped out. 

Astrotrain sighed and complied. 

*

Blast Off frowned and slammed the console button, turning it off. How dared that Energon-guzzling, Unicronian, squid-for-brains order him around? He was Blast Off! He was well above any of these, his so-called comrades. 

Turning sharply from the IC, he stomped through the darkened corridors of the base's lower sections. He'd been busy down here, repairing some stupid generator, when Astrotrain's voice had rung out from the hidden speakers. 

Blast Off would never admit it, but in actuality he was glad to get something to be angry over. It took his attention away from the cramped spaces and tunnels down in which he'd been forced. 

So, yes. He stomped back the way he'd taken to get to the console, all the while grumbling to himself. Reaching the generator, he gave it a good kick, before kneeling down to continue repairs. "Stupid, zarking suck-up..." The soft scraping of dirt against dirt made Blast Off jerk around. "Wha...?" He narrowed his visor, staring into the darkness. "Is someone there?" 

Silence, suddenly penetrated by yet more scraping. 

"It's... it's just a small quake," Blast Off assured himself. "Nothing to be worried about." A part of his mind questioned why he hadn't felt any vibrations, but he pushed the thought away. "Just a quake." 

A sigh, oh so soft, like wind passing through a small window. Blast Off straightened immediately, staring once more into the darkness. He sat tensely for what seemed like hours. In the distance, oh so faintly, he then picked up the rhythmic tap of running feet. Light, almost silently. A malevolent laugh echoed around him, and from the shadows appeared, as if born from it, a ghostly apparition. Blast Off turned and ran for dear life. 

*

Vortex was well-skilled in flight. But a jet - a space-faring one, no less - could outpace him any day. When Cyclonus reached him, he transformed and hovered, waiting. Cyclonus too transformed. "Cyclonus, sir," Vortex greeted. 

"And where," Cyclonus asked coolly, "do you think you were going?" 

Vortex shrugged noncommittally. "Just flyin' around." 

"I ordered you back to base. What possible reason could you have to deny--" 

"Brawl was killed in the base, wasn't he? Seems to me, _sir_, that it's safer out here." 

Cyclonus frowned, both at the fact that he was cut off, mid sentence, and at the other's argument. "That's no excuse for disobeying an order." 

"Well, I-GRAH!" Vortex suddenly dropped like a rock. Cyclonus, acting on instinct, caught him and brought him down to the surface. 

"Vortex? Is something wrong?" 

Vortex shook his head, but not in denial. He hadn't even heard Cyclonus. 

_Run! Run! There's something behind me! Primus! I'm going to die..._

"I... argh! B-Blast Off!" The helicopter grapped his head, as if in pain. Cyclonus looked on, worriedly. 

_It's laughing. Gods, make it stop... There! The doors, if I can just reach them... Primus!_

Vortex gasped and kicked out after the jet, unseeing. "Help him! Onslaught, you must be seeing this! _Help him!_" 

_I just... I just... **ARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!**_

_"Ahh!"_ Vortex collapsed to the ground, curled up, shivering. "He's dying. Primus, he's dying..." 

Cyclonus stood in shock, watching the trained, professional soldier that Vortex was go into was seemed like a seizure. Aside from... _Blast Off? Dying?_ The jet's optics widened, and he instantly activated his comm. "Cyclonus to anyone. Come in!" 

_"This is Drag Strip. What's up?"_

"Where's Blast Off?" 

_"Jerk Off? Down in the cellars, I think. Why?"_

"Send a team down there. Now!" Cyclonus ordered frantically. 

_"You got it, sir,"_ Drag Strip responded, sounding a bit nonplussed. 

Cyclonus turned to the writhing Combaticon on the ground. It was not a pretty sight. Vortex was, once again, convulsing wildly, quietly begging Onslaught to do something. 

_It hurts... Primus... Brothers, help meeeeee..._

Vortex sat up, stiff like a board. And screamed into the gloom of Charr. 

*

_Too easy..._ the Hunter cackled in his mind. _These are supposed to be the elite warriors, but they give me no sport!_ He looked back to where what had once been Blast Off lay. He could hear voices coming. They'd soon find his little piece of art. Chortling once more in his mind, he disappeared into the gloom, cleaning off to, once again, walk undetected amongst his fellow Decepticons... 

**END OF CHAPTER ONE**


End file.
